Dark Sky (Joe Pickett #21)(81)

Down on the floor of the drainage, Earl and Kirby Thomas sat mounted next to each other. They were conversing, and neither had yet looked up to monitor Brad’s progress. But they could at any moment.

Joe thought: The Fog of War. He had no idea whom Earl and Kirby had engaged with earlier or where the visitors had gone—if they were even there at all. Likewise, Earl and Kirby had no idea he and Price were up there. Neither did Brad.

He had three choices, he thought. All of them were bad. He could hunker down with Price and hope against hope that none of the Thomases would see them out there in the open. Or he could try to escape like the wolverines had by running up the steep slope with the hope they could find cover.

Or he could take on Brad while the man’s back was turned.

Joe didn’t hunker down and he didn’t retreat. Instead, he spotted the familiar gait of Toby two horses ahead of Boedecker’s gelding. The panniers on Toby’s sides bulged with his weapons and gear.

Painfully, Joe jogged ahead. He kept his head low and passed Boedecker’s gelding, then a roan packhorse the rancher had brought along, until he got to Toby’s painted flank. His horse seemed to recognize him and acknowledge him, but he couldn’t and didn’t slow down.

While walking alongside, Toby turned his head and tried to nuzzle Joe beneath his chin. Joe turned away.

Instead, he skipped along at the same pace as the horses, trying to unbuckle the straps that held the panniers closed. He hoped to open the stiff container and find his Colt Python, or his bear spray, or at the very least his satellite phone. It was hard to make progress because of the movement of the horses, and he tried to keep his footing as he did so.

Joe loosened the strap and threw the cover back. He reached down into the bag and his fingers felt clothes, extra boots, his sleeping bag, but nothing hard and solid like a weapon. He determined the items he needed must be either in the opposite pannier—or carried by other horses.

Joe glanced up in frustration at the same moment Brad began to turn in his saddle to check the string.

Joe ducked and moved in as close as he could to Toby and tried not to get stepped on. Joe gave Brad a few seconds to look back, then cautiously raised his head as he walked along.

But Brad hadn’t resumed his position facing forward. Instead, he glared at Joe in surprise and his eyes got big. Brad’s mouth opened to call out, but instead of a cry a thick dollop of blood rushed out and spilled down his chin through his beard.

Before Brad could swing his rifle around, Joe raised the .22 and aimed it at a spot under Brad’s right eye and pulled the trigger.

Snap. Another bad round.

Price couldn’t pick them, either.

Joe tossed the rifle aside and rushed Brad’s horse. As he did, he drew the broken spear out from his belt and gripped it with the point facing up. He ducked again as Brad fired and the concussion itself nearly broke Joe’s stride, but he knew intuitively that Brad’s awkward position had resulted in a miss right over the top of his head.

Winding up as he ran, Joe thumped headlong into the side of Brad’s horse’s flank, while at the same time arcing the spear across his body. The tip buried into Brad’s upper thigh, but missed bone. Instead, it stopped solidly as the point buried into the skirt of Brad’s saddle through the flesh of his leg.

Brad howled while he bolted another round into his rifle, and he spun his horse away. The lead rope he’d been holding for the pack string fell to the ground.

Joe stayed with him out of pure fear, because he didn’t know what else to do. When Brad swung the rifle down again, Joe reached up and grasped the warm barrel and pulled, hoping to wrench it away from Brad’s grip.

But the man was too strong. Instead of letting go, Brad jerked back and nearly pulled Joe off of his feet. But as he did, he howled again as if the pain from his thigh and his shattered jaw both hit him at once.

Joe placed the sole of his boot on the side of Brad’s horse for leverage and leaned back and yanked on the barrel again. This time, it dislodged the big man and he tumbled out of the saddle toward Joe. Brad let go of the rifle as Joe wrenched it free, but the weapon stuck muzzle-first into the ground at Joe’s feet.

Brad didn’t fall on him with all of his weight because the spear through his leg pinned him to the saddle. Instead, Brad swung down like a pendulum until he was upside down for a second. Then the spear came loose and the big man fell to the ground in a heap.

“Hey! No! Goddammit!” Earl shouted from down in the drainage. He spurred his horse and started to charge up the slope with Kirby falling in right behind him. As he rode, Earl pulled his rifle from its scabbard and brandished it.

Joe quickly examined the rifle he’d taken. The muzzle was packed tightly with mud. He had no way to clean it out, and if he pulled the trigger it would likely explode in his face.

The string of packhorses resumed their journey and continued to walk along as if nothing had happened. Horse after horse passed by as Joe stood there with Brad at his feet.

Boedecker’s gelding walked past and Joe found himself in the open with Earl and his younger son charging up the slope directly at him. He tossed the useless rifle aside.

As if oblivious to everything that was going on, Price suddenly lurched into Joe’s field of vision. He lurched because he was unbalanced from hefting a heavy rock the size of a football above his head with both hands. Which he smashed down on the back of Brad’s head with a sickening hollow sound, and the man trembled and went still.